


Smoke

by green_violin_bow, Mottlemoth



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Biting, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Finger Fucking, M/M, Married mystrade, PWP, Pleading, Prostate Massage, Sex, Smut, dominant greg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-09
Updated: 2017-09-09
Packaged: 2018-12-25 15:19:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12038658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/green_violin_bow/pseuds/green_violin_bow, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mottlemoth/pseuds/Mottlemoth
Summary: "No... don’t bite down. Moan for me."After five years of marriage, Greg Holmes-Lestrade is still entirely capable of commanding his husband's attentions.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft's experience was written by Mottlemoth, as a gift for Green Violin Bow; Green Violin Bow's Greg follows in Chapter Two.
> 
> Thank you all for reading. I'm deeply grateful for your comments. x

* * *

 

“Good?” he breathes against my desperate, gasping mouth - a stroke of soft grey stubble; a whisper of cigarette smoke; his fingers twisting deeper.

I shouldn’t find it attractive that he still smokes - as if we are horny sixth-formers, not grown men with professions; as if he is an eighteen-year-old bad boy in a black jacket, not an admired and very capable detective inspector; as if we are not both of an age where I should be ripping the wretched things out of his mouth, hurling them into the bin and telling him I want a husband for more than ten damn years. 

I should be able to resist the sight of him lighting one with a frown, and resist the smell of it lingering in his shirt collar afterwards - and yet I can’t.

I shouldn’t find it the single most arousing thing in the world that my husband carries handcuffs in the glove-box of his car. I should be able to find them there without being driven into an immediate foaming frenzy of lust, leaving me unable to concentrate on a thing all morning. I should be able to see him extend a handshake to people and introduce himself as “Detective Inspector Holmes-Lestrade” without wanting him to escort me immediately behind the nearest lockable door. I should be able to watch him hold a press conference about some absolutely dreadful murder without remarking to myself that the man is quite simply the most sexually evocative creature walking the planet, and I am the luckiest person who ever lived.

And yet I can’t resist.

Because he is mine - and because I’m the one who gets to know what this feels like.

I’m the one who knows what it is to be pulled onto his lap on the couch, with dinner barely finished, the plates still to be rinsed ready for the dishwasher, and instead to have my clothes coaxed off by his restless hands while he stays completely dressed. I get to hear him murmur to me to kiss him - ordering me softly, knowing I can’t resist when he uses that tone of voice to me. He makes me so weak I can barely breathe. It’s been five years since he locked my surname with his, and surely I should not still feel so faint when he touches me - when he gazes at me, dark-eyed and proud - and yet I do. And it overwhelms me every time that I get to be the one.

I’m the one who gets to feel him smirk a little against my mouth as he guides my thighs apart with his hands, making me tremble, making me gasp. He coaxes his fingers down the cleft of my arse, leaving me biting down on a whimper, pressing my face into his muscular shoulder and breathing in his damn smoke and his aftershave, and he husks against my cheek, “No... don’t bite down. Moan for me.”

He’s so very good at making me moan for him.

He’s good at making me whimper, too - making me shake as he persuades his thick fingers gently inside me, fucking me with them all too slowly, just a little roughly, pushing his tongue into my mouth at the same time - the rasp of his stubble - his other hand curling possessively at the small of my spine, coaxing me nearer, guiding me to lean against him. The buttons of his cotton work-shirt make me shiver as they ghost across my skin. He grins into my mouth. He’s warm, and he smells good, and he’s  _gorgeous_  and he knows it, and he knows I’m going to come in fountains  _exactly_ when he lets me and not a moment sooner. He ignores my cock utterly - lets me push against his shirt, for a whisper of friction - but it’s not enough.

And I’m not going to come like that.

I’m going to come on my husband’s fingers - and he knows it.

It’s why he has that look in his eyes - that glittering, smoky-eyed look, regarding me across no more than an inch of space as I push back against him, sinking my teeth into my own lower lip, blushing to the hairline and shaking to the core as I fuck myself urgently on his hand.

“Feel good, love?” he murmurs, driving his fingers harder into me. I feel full - stretched. Thick. He can’t possibly reach any deeper inside of me. He’s in all of me. And so I nod frantically, rocking back against him and tightening my grip - one hand on his heavy shoulder; the other on the back of the couch.

He dips his head, nudging my chin up - gently demanding access my neck. I give it to him, whimpering.

And he kisses and sucks and bites at me until I can barely fucking breathe, grinding back on his fingers, moaning and whimpering for him in my despair. His other hand appears at the nape of my neck. His fingers tangle in my hair, coaxing my head back and my chin higher so he can dig his teeth into some new spot on my neck, and it is no wonder the neighbours never speak to us, because I’m almost screaming out his name, begging him to fuck me with his fingers until I cry, and it’s not even nine. It’s a  _Tuesday_. Surely it shouldn’t be this way. Are other people’s marriages like this? Then how does anyone ever contemplate divorce? Are other people not pulled onto their husband’s lap and fucked to the point of tears when the dishwasher hasn’t even been loaded? Are other people not growled at, softly  _snarled_  at not to come until he says or there will be trouble? Do other people not wear their love-bites as proudly as their wedding rings?

Perhaps the answer is simple: no.

It isn’t always like this.

It’s him.

Him, and what he does to me.

“Beg me,” he breathes in my ear, driving his fingers into me so fast and hard now that I fear I’m passing out - pounding my prostate now on every fucking stroke - dragging his teeth across my earlobe and growling, “Plead with me, Myc. Beg me to come.”

I erupt into frantic and broken desperation at once, pleading with him at the top of my voice. A stream of insanity pours from me as I bunch my fingers in his work-shirt and arch and cry for him, and howl for him, and spread my thighs as far apart as they’ll go and plead and beg him  _please Gregory_   _please, please, please let me fucking come_  - and he snarls in my ear, fierce, possessive,

“Come, Myc. Now. Right this second,  _now_.”

And the whole world rips apart around me - and I am no longer bound by my body - by nerves and bone and blood, by the places that he makes me feel good, by the limits of my skin. I am a pulse. I am a cataclysm of sound and colour. I am pleasure so perfect it becomes a bright and searing light, and I am  _everything_  - and at the core of me, right there where it matters, is my husband. His voice, soft in my ear. His hand rubbing my back. His fingers, twisted deep, buried thick inside me as I clench around them and heave and sob and  _come_  for him, come all over him, come like I was created just to fucking come for him.

As I return, I find that I’m laid bonelessly against his chest. The soft cotton of his work-shirt is now spattered with my come. I’m cradled in his arms, fragile as a new butterfly. He’s holding me, listening to me pant against his shoulder.

“Good boy,” he croons to me. He laves his tongue tenderly over my brand new bites. “M'so proud of you.”

I am forty-six-years-old; I am the power of the British nation.

And yet here in my husband’s lap - shaking so deeply that I can barely lift my head to kiss him - I am a good boy.

“Made such a mess for me,” he soothes. Slowly, he begins to pet my hair. “Good, mm?”

“G-Good - oh,  _fuck_ …”

“Mm. Thought so.” My husband strokes a kiss along my jaw, drifting with his stubble and the scent of his smoke tenderly towards my mouth. “I love you,” he breathes - catches my lower lip in his teeth, tugs at it. His eyes close slowly at my choked moan. As he releases my lip, he whispers, “You love me too, sweet?”

“I love you - oh God, Gregory…  _I love you_.”

He curls his hand slowly at the back of my neck, and gives a gentle, insistent pull downwards.

With his other hand, he starts unbuckling his belt.

“Show me,” he breathes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five years into their marriage, Gregory Holmes-Lestrade knows exactly when Mycroft needs to be distracted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moth. You rendered me incoherent. I hope I can return the favour. x

It’s a wonderful thing, to have a husband like mine. Powerful, sexy, so intelligent it’s frightening, sometimes. Rich, if you’re bothered by that sort of thing.

And that power – Jesus Christ, the kind of responsibility that if I thought about it, sat down and truly thought it out – well. I don’t know how I’d function, if I was him. But he keeps it all going, all the plates spinning inside that casually, calmly _brilliant_ mind –

Sometimes, though, I can tell he’s not here. The plates, the deadlines, they start to take over, and he puts pressure on himself more than anyone else ever could. Even at home – everything has to be done to a schedule, dishes clean immediately after dinner, bed exactly on time, and his thoughts race frantically across his face. And he still doesn’t understand that I can read him, every time. My Mycroft. Always one to value intelligence, but he still sometimes thinks I’m a mind-reader. He underestimates the power of knowing someone, inside out and backwards.

When you love someone like Mycroft Holmes, it’d be easy to get caught in his intellectual maze. What he forgets – what I _never_ forget – is that he’s just a man. A powerful, intelligent man. One who will deny his own needs endlessly in the service of others, will deny he even _has_ needs.

And I remind him: because I can, because I love him, and because he’s mine.

His eyes are on his book, moving across the words even, but his mind is not. And those do not look like good thoughts.

When I take his book away, he looks up, but the flick of his eyebrow isn’t as sharp as usual. He’s still not really _here,_ with me.

I take his hands, and I stand him up, and I drop his clothes to the floor, piece by piece. His skin invites me, as it always does, but this is gentle. Almost non-sexual, in a way – his armour, falling away, and each whisper of withdrawing fabric is a thread, tying him to me.

When I sit, still fully clothed, and draw him naked into my lap, his attention is mine again. Not laser-focused, yet, but there’s time for that. He waits, watches me, because he knows what I want, and ultimately, he is a very good boy; he loves when I tell him so, but he knows he has to earn it. He knows, too – he’s beginning to understand again – that this is what he needs. That I’m right, and that I’ll take care of him. That I love to.

“Kiss me,” I say, leaning back, waiting for him to follow me. He does, soft brushes of our lips, first, still acclimatising himself to the feel of this: something real. I feel him shift in my lap, allowing the texture of my clothes to tease his tender, pale skin. His cock hardens, thickens, and he kisses my bottom lip. His hands are relaxed on my shoulders, but he presses forward for a more insistent kiss, and I let him take what he needs.

I run my hands gently up from his knees to his hips, thumbs caressing just below his hipbones; his cock fills further, and bobs forward, hoping for touch, for friction. I splay my fingers across his buttocks and pull him in, fingertips ghosting across the cleft of his arse. He must be able to feel that I am hardening in my trousers, but he chases his own satisfaction, rocking on my lap, rutting against my stomach. I allow it, bringing my fingers to my lips. I keep eye contact with him as I suck my fingers, as wet as possible.

When I push the tip of my index finger inside him, he bites down on a moan and falls forward against my shoulder, tearing at me through the fabric.

“No,” I murmur, lips brushing his ear. “Don’t bite down. Moan for me.”

And he does, low in his throat, forehead pressed against my temple. The ability to make him moan – to make him _loud_ – burns in my belly like fire. He was shy when we had sex, at first, this beautiful man; he didn’t understand that what I wanted from him was nothing short of _everything._

He learned.

Slowly, so slowly, I push my finger in, listening to his breathing for signs of discomfort. There are none, and he hesitates at my lips, desperate to be kissed, to be taken in another way, too. I bite his lips, and lick them better; I caress his tongue with my own. He melts against me, shivering, rocking and rubbing against my stomach, and I can’t help but pull him closer because _fuck,_ I’m so hard in my trousers, watching him, listening to him as he shakes under my hands.

He wants to come, already, but at the same time he doesn’t. He could probably get just enough friction, if he tried, but he won’t, because he knows what he needs. I smile as he gasps into the kiss. Ghosting the pad of my finger over his prostate, I grin as he moans again. He rubs his oversensitive lips against my stubble, shivering, helpless, impaled on my finger.

He’s not helpless, though. He knows that. I pull back and watch him, wrecked, flushed, red-lipped, eyes dazed dark grey. I watch him as I push my second finger slowly in, as his lips part and his expression shivers through desperation into submission.

_There you are, baby. There you are._

He moves, now, avoiding eye contact as he starts to fuck himself on my fingers. Gaze lowered, his breaths are groans in the back of his throat; he knows I want to hear him, but he flushes red with embarrassment, and my heart turns over in my chest, even as my cock throbs, desperate for attention.

I curl my fingers, and he cries out. My other hand goes to his jawline, and my touch is soft but he knows I demand his gaze on mine.

“Feel good, love?” I ask, and I know it does because his thighs are trembling with the urgent, feverish press of his hips back against my hand. He moans, and nods, biting at his bottom lip. Not an attempt to remain silent – _not my good boy_ – but a thread of pain in an overwhelming sea of pleasure. _Sweetheart. Love._ “Remember,” I growl, voice rough, _“I_ say when you come. Only me. And if you defy me, there’ll be trouble.”

He’s shaking, and despite my strictures, this won’t last much longer. He takes what he needs, asking me always with his eyes if this is what he can have.

_Of course it is, baby._ I nudge my lips under his jawline, fisting my hand in his hair, tugging just a little – _find that thread of pain, sweetheart, follow it while you fuck yourself._ I bite, and soothe, and bite again, and he grinds down on my fingers, moaning, gasping and _fuck, darling, oh god,_ whining –

I bite his earlobe, hard. “Beg me.” I crook my fingers again, driving them into him to meet his frantic thrusts. “Plead with me, Myc. Beg me to come.”

He drops his head, eye contact maintained just barely as he watches me through his eyelashes. “Fuck,” he groans, and I worry he hasn’t enough breath left to beg. “Greg – Gregory – I need – let me come, please, I beg you, I’m so close, please –” he whines, whimpers, pushing back, grinding down. “Please, please, please let me come –”

_Fuck. God._ Thrust up, just a few times, against his plush little arse, and I’d come in my pants like a teenager. Roughly, I pull him close by the hair. _Mine. My beautiful, desperate love._

“Come, Myc. Now. Right this second, _now.”_

It’s beautiful to watch, the total submission on his face as he clenches and shakes, coming so hard there’s no room for breath or even sound – just his lips, open, as he paints himself and me with come. “Yes, baby, _fuck,_ yes, that’s perfect, you’re so good for me, Myc – so good, such a good boy – oh, look at all this – yes – oh Myc –”

And he crumples against me, breathing at last, the hitching, bothered breaths of the aftermath of sobbing. I kiss him, wherever I can. I soothe. I love, and love, and love.

“Good boy. ’M’so proud of you. Made such a mess for me.”

He loves to know he pleased me. And oh, he did.

My hands tangle in his hair. “Good, mm?”

His voice is a tired rasp. “G-good – oh, _fuck_ –”

I can’t help but smile. My cock throbs urgently against his arse. When he swears – well. There’s time for that. Soon.

_My love._


End file.
